“This one isn’t at all like you, my dear,” said Mrs. Denyer, with emphasis, to her eldest girl.  “The other is passable, but I wouldn’t have any of these.”

“Well, of course I am no judge,” replied Barbara, “but I can’t agree with you.  I much prefer this one.”

Mr. Musselwhite was slowly rising.

“Let us take some one else’s opinion,” said the mother.  “I wonder what Mr. Musselwhite would say?”

The mention of his name caused him to turn his head, half absently, with an inquiring smile.  Barbara withdrew a step, but Mrs. Denyer, in the most natural way possible, requested Mr. Musselwhite’s judgment on the portraits under discussion.

He took the two in his hands, and, after inspecting them, looked round to make comparison with the original.  Barbara met his gaze placidly, with gracefully poised head, her hands joined behind her.  It was such a long time before the arbiter found anything to remark, that the situation became a little embarrassing; Zillah laughed girlishly, and her sister’s eyes fell.

“Really, it’s very hard to decide,” said Mr. Musselwhite at length, with grave conscientiousness.  “I think they’re both remarkably good.  I really think I should have some of both.”

“Barbara thinks that this makes her look too childish,” said Mrs. Denyer, using her daughter’s name with a pleasant familiarity.

Again Mr. Musselwhite made close comparison.  It was, in fact, the first time that he had seen the girl’s features; hitherto they had been, like everything else not embalmed in his memory, a mere vague perception, a detail of the phantasmic world through which he struggled against his ennui.

“Childish?  Oh dear, no!” he remarked, almost vivaciously.  “It is charming; they are both charming.  Really, I’d have some of both, Miss Denyer.”

“Then we certainly will,” was Mrs. Denyer’s conclusion; and with a gracious inclination of the head, she left the room, followed by her daughters.  Mr. Musselwhite looked round for another glance at Barbara, but of course he was just too late.

Poor Madeline, in the meantime, was being sorely tried.  Whilst Clifford Marsh was away at Pompeii, daily “scenes” took place between her and her mother.  Mrs. Denyer would have had her make conciliatory movements, whereas Madeline, who had not exchanged a word with Clifford since the parting in wrath, was determined not to be the first to show signs of yielding.  And she held her ground, tearless, resentful, strong in a sense of her own importance.

When he again took his place at Mrs. Gluck’s table, Clifford had the air of a man who has resigned himself to the lack of sympathy and appreciation—­nay, who defies everything external, and in the strength of his genius goes serenely onwards.  Never had he displayed such self-consciousness; not for an instant did he forget to regulate the play of his features.  Mrs. Denyer he had greeted distantly; her daughters, more distantly still.  He did not look more than once or twice in Miss Doran’s direction, for Mrs. Denyer’s reproof had made him conscious of an excess in artistic homage.  His neighbour being Mr. Bradshaw, he conversed with him agreeably, smiling seldom.  He seemed neither depressed nor uneasy; his countenance wore a grave and noble melancholy, now and then illumined with an indescribable ardour.